Paperwork
by CornBeefRoast
Summary: Being Inquisitor isn't all tomb raiding and dragon slaying. There's the dull as all hell paperwork that needs to be done... and also the people to distract you from it. Brief study on my Lavellan Inquisitor and Cullen. T for language.


This is the third requisitions order she's filled out tonight.

This time for silk, to ship to her friend the Orlesian with the stick up his ass, in order to receive the raw materials for the increasing order of front line weapons of higher quality—swords that wouldn't shatter on the hard armor of a red templar were generally required to fight a war.

There was another order around here _somewhere_ for runes that would hone blades to a razors edge but it was lost to the oceans of parchment spread on her desk.

Another evident reminder to bribe her assistant to not pitch a fit when he arrived for his daily duties. He always harped on her for working late and then making _his_ office a mess. She may be Inquisitor but he was her assistant and _damn_ him if he finds her office in shambles once again.

By the looks of it, the man will be damned twice come morning.

Tomes lay propped against each other on the floor, some flipped to random pages and nearly all her bookshelves are empty because the books supposed to house them lay scattered across the office where they were left upon retrieving the information she'd needed at the time.

Piles upon piles of papers—forms and letters mostly—lie too close to candles and in precarious towers, inkwells and quills placed strategically throughout the room because she likes to pace while she works.

Right now though, she finds herself stranded on the heavy mahogany chair she calls her own behind the immense desk of scrolled legs and smooth felt top that prickles against her fingertips when she moves to flip the order form and sign at the bottom. Her signature is a twisting spidery script made by hands not unused to writing, but obviously not comfortable with the plumb colored ink, cautious to not smudge with the heel of her left dominant hand.

_By order of Inquisitor Cahiral Lavellan, here's your bloody silk now give me whats mine._

She's almost tempted to sign in hearts; she's been spending too much time with Varric.

"Oh I'd say so." There's a hearty chuckle from the door when her head whips up so fast that her aching neck _cracks_ painfully and she grimaces, rubbing circles into the back of her neck to sooth the pain.

When she's confident that her spine won't snap when she moves, she looks up to the too tall doors left slightly ajar, letting in golden light, the tell tale flickers of a torch making the shadows dance at the edges of her vision.

Who stands at her doors carved with tall regal halla is a man, strong shoulders topped with dark pauldrons frayed with heavy burgundy fur, silver gauntlets down his arms and a red wine tunic hanging from his shoulders, lined in threads of flickering gold gossamer.

What makes her smile fondly is the helmet tucked beneath the man's arm, a long maned helmet that bears the face of a lion cast in silver, pitiless eyes staring down prey and fangs bared for the kill. Its a gorgeous helm, she's almost jealous she hasn't gotten one similar for herself, perhaps a halla with horns curving off the apex to gore her enemies with should the chance present itself.

The man clears his throat with a sound like garbling glass, her eyes flickering up to meet his wry smirk.

"If I did not know better, I'd say you liked my helmet more than me." Whiskey colored eyes laugh at her, flashing in the candlelight, a fond smirk pursing his lips thin, blond stubble turning his jaw dark and circles under his eyes telling a larger story.

He's probably slept as much as her in the past three days—to say anything, not at all.

She finds her eyes linger down his neck, sun-kissed skin bruised from a close encounter on the battlefield, silver armor tenderly hugging his throat and disappearing beneath the wine tunic.

A shrug of his shoulders ruffles the fur of his pauldrons and his throaty voice is laughing when he speaks.

"My eyes are up here, darling." He crosses the room swiftly, the click of his armor and muffled sound of his tunic catching air; so clearly the sounds of _him_, the tap of his scabbard against his hip, stretch of leather bracers and disapproving hum in the core of his throat when he sees the paperwork she has spread all over her desk, hidden beneath an empty flagon and other such paperweights; a mabari, an inquisition insignia, a small statue of the dread wolf Fen'harel.

"You haven't slept yet, have you?" His teasing smile has fallen to a concerned frown, wrinkles pursing at his forehead and eyes narrowing at the forms she's devoted her night to.

But Cahiral just shrugs off his concern, "Its still night, I'll sleep when I'm done with today's work." his raised brow confuses her, an amused smile putting a pit in her stomach.

"It's dawn." She snaps around to look out one of the many floor to ceiling windows, groaning when she sees the increasingly pale blue sky, signs of the sun rising appearing in shades of orange and pale gold, the bright star still hidden beneath the blanket of Thedas, peeking out in the first rays of day.

She slumps in her chair, sliding nearly off it and covering her eyes, "Mythal save me." She moans, looking between her fingers when the ex-templar chuckles, shaking his head.

"Well, you're not getting any rest today, Cahiral, but you do need to get out of this office-" he offers her his hand, "Walk with me?"

She's surprised at herself when she doesn't hesitate to grab his hand, pulling herself from her seat. She quickly feels exposed when she stands in her lounge wear, a red blouse hemmed in gold thread at the lapels and cuffs rolled to her elbows. Its tucked into her brown trousers, soft leather boots quiet against the floor and she feels vulnerable compared to the man in full metal.

"You're eying my armor again, _Inquisitor_." He teases her quietly, a fond expression softening his features.

She hates how easy she is to read, usually she prides herself in hiding her thoughts but when it comes to this man, she's exposed and at his mercy.

"I miss my armor is all, and yours is very attractive, Cullen." She smiles when he blushes, quickly looking away from her to push open the doors of her office, gauntleted hand still entwined with hers.

She doesn't mention it, neither does he; they're both rather new at this whole courting thing, he is her war advisor, her best general, and she was baffled when she saw him in full armor for the first time, lion helmet and all, and felt a surge of fire in her veins.

Then she got to know the man behind the lion mask and that fire never died, just fell to a tame flicker ever burning.

"The quartermaster should be done with repairs today if its any consolation." he murmurs, falling into a leisurely gait down the stone hallway, sputtering torches fighting the rising sunlight pouring in from the high windows, long red curtains drawn up by the fort's caretakers.

There is something heavenly cooking in the kitchens, mingling with the scents of amber and stone.

Cullen leads her down the halls to the battlements, stepping out into the frosty air of spring morning, an Orlesian sun beginning to show above the horizon, cut by mountainous silhouettes and a smattering of purple clouds, small white stars fading in the western sky.

Their breath shows in steam but the cold is a reparation from her office and the suffocation of indoors—maybe she should take some forms out here to work, mix business with pleasure and all.

"There. You look alive again." Cullen says with a glint of mischief in his eyes, resting his elbows on the embrasure of the battlement wall.

She breathes in the chilly air with a content sigh, freezing her lungs, and she settles in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, clasping her hands in front of her until he makes a grunt of protest and weasels his fingers between hers again.

"Wouldn't want the inquisition to be led by a shambling corpse, hmm?" She quips back, running her thumb in circles on the back of his gauntlet, the cool iron placing frost on her skin but she doesn't protest. The clasp of metal is sharp and biting but she'd rather have his hand than the warmth of her pockets.

He snorts, shaking his head, "No, that'd be a shame." he glances at her, eyes going soft when his gaze dances across her face, memorizing the plethora of freckles splashed across her skin, dim vallaslin framing her eyes of verdant green.

His eyes flicker though, to someone behind her. She hears the metal clip of armored footsteps, a patrol guard passing by, the mutter of _Morning Inquisitor, _inflected with speculation at the sight of her war advisor clasping her hand.

She feels Cullen tense and try to release her but she grips tighter, keeping her eyes on his, brow lifting.

He blushes pink, conceding to her grip as the guard passes, a second greeting to Cullen far more drawn out with curiosity.

_General._

Cullen gives the soldier a greeting tilt of his chin before the woman walks by, a knowing smirk on her lips as she passes.

"You know, you shouldn't initiate if you don't want to be at the top of the gossip vine." The words are teasing but her tone is cautious.

She's giving him an out, stop it where it is.

But his eyes widen at the propensity, turning away from her to consider the wakening forest sprawled below the parapets.

She lets him hesitate, can feel him mulling over his thoughts, twisting their hands so hers is on top, admiring the pale freckle covered skin, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles.

She ignores the spool of heat that cinches around her throat.

"I... have never been too forward with my affections, Cahiral." He admits after a long while, "When I was in Ferelden I—I let myself fancy a young mage at the tower. She was... a spitfire." he laughs dryly, smiling fondly at the memories of a happier time.

But those once happier times quickly spiral into dark places as his smile falls.

"She failed her harrowing and I... I was the one who cut her down where she stood. Between her and the demons who used her memory against me I find that I am... _hesitant_ to believe I can share such affections with another." his eyes turn to her, quietly begging for her to understand, to know why he's hesitant of public displays much less affection at all.

She does all too well.

"I was fourteen." She explains, hesitating only to find the words, "Plague had hit my clan that summer, we'd lost three hunters already to the sickness, there were more at death's door." She begins, refusing to look away from Cullen, looking away would be too easy, as if giving in to demons of the past.

To see Cullen's reaction, every thought that flickers across his face, would be to stare at the demons and tell them to go to hell.

"Their families they didn't want to see them go. The Keeper could only do so much to ease their passing but they were suffering and their loved ones wouldn't put them to the knife... so I volunteered." She notices the quiet flinch that pinches the corner of his eyes, his breath held a moment longer than normal; she continues on.

"So I sang them their passing rites and thrust my blade into their hearts, quick, painless, they looked so relieved to be done with the sickness, they looked at peace. Their family members did not feel the same way. They understood why I did what I did, I even made sure with them and the departed that it was alright to go ahead, it was merciful but... I know my clan mates didn't look at me the same ever again." She snorts, "Honestly, I think they were afraid of me, my best friend didn't even treat me the same after that even though she insisted-" she stops before bitterness can sink into her voice, breathing out slowly to stop those demons from wrenching at her heart.

"Even though she insisted that she loved me the same as ever. I guess thats where I started disagreeing with the clan, the first of many reasons as to why I left."

She twists their hands as well, lifting his to kiss the back of his gauntlet, her breath steaming the metal, eyes watching his lips part the slightest in awe of her.

"So, forgive me if I hang on too tightly. You let me know if anything changes?"

His smirk turns wry, "Oh I doubt there's anything you could do that could change this for the worse."

"Don't say that, I might take it as a challenge."

He rolls his eyes and shoves off the wall, pulling her away with hands still clasped, "Let's finish our walk."

She smiles and follows, falling into step with her war advisor, admiring the cold morning that flares with the growing warmth of the sun. Horses in the courtyard stables whiny, chuffing at the yawning stable hands. The kennelmaster releases the mabari war hounds for a morning run, smiling pleasantly at the three hounds that bound around the courtyard, barking happily, annoying the horses and each other with shows of teeth.

She watches the fort slowly begin to wake, the night shift patrols switching out with the morning roster, the servants who have already been up for hours starting the daily errands and the smell of the kitchens firing up for breakfast lulling her senses to a haze.

She is surprised when Cullen clears his throat and she starts, looking around to remember how they got here—at the door to her quarters, obvious in the fact that it is carved with Dalish design, a red roan halla standing guard, eyes daring trespassers.

"This isn't my office, Cullen." He chokes on his laughter.

"No, Lavellan, its not." He retorts with a grin. Bastard.

Before she can protest though he has the door open and ushers her inside.

"At least get _some_ rest, I'll handle the morning issues with Leliana, the inquisition won't fall when you close your eyes."

She makes token protest, murmuring something under her breath she can't even remember when she drops onto the massive bed made of divine heaven, not even getting under the covers much less reaching the pillows. She happily slips into dreams laying on her stomach and spread obscenely over the comforter.

She hears Cullen chuckle as he closes the door with a gentle click of the lock.

* * *

She's woken not two hours later from a loud booming voice careening down the empty halls, shrieking obscenities brimming with red hot rage.

She moans into the comforter, grimacing when she manages to pull herself up into a sitting position, shoulders popping and ankles cracking when she swings her legs over the end of the bed. She lets the man scream his insults as his voice gets closer, lifting her arms in a wide stretch before shambling to her feet.

Two hours rest were better than none at all, now duty calls in the form of her assistant shouting bloody murder at the state of the office he's left in charge of every day. She gets up before the dwarf's obscenities get too raucous, leaving behind her bed chamber to placate the dwarf with bribes of Orlesian ink and Rivaini sweets.

She should probably get something for Cullen too.


End file.
